walk direct from the Swiss Bahnhof into the French station. If we catch a train at eleven in the morning there should be no one manning either control point. There wasn't before.'
'Supposing the control points are manned this time? No way to guard against that,' Paula insisted.
'Yes, there is,' Tweed explained. 'I'm carrying nothing. I go through first, you lag behind. If you see me stopped, turn back. We'll think of something else.'
'I wonder where Joel Dyson is now,' Paula mused.
'What I'd like to know is who murdered Helen Frey, Klara and that detective, Theo Strebel,' Newman commented.
'I think I've worked that out – from information one of you provided me,'Tweed replied.
Bankverein, the tram-stop midway between the Rhine and the railway station, is where most of the Basle banks are situated. The Zurcher Kredit was one of them. The hippie sitting on the pavement near the bank's entrance had his legs sprawled out in front of him. He wore a shabby old Swiss hat, the brim pulled down over his forehead. His worn dark overcoat was buttoned up to the neck against the cold. His stained corduroy trousers were too long and draped over his ancient Swiss climbing boots. By his side Joel Dyson had a large canvas bag.
Dyson had rubbed dirt into his plump face and a torn scarf concealed his receding chin. Several Swiss who passed by glanced at him curiously, but Dyson knew the American watcher on the other side of the street would find nothing strange in his presence.
Dyson was waiting his opportunity to slip into the bank without the American seeing him enter. He had worked out the moment – providing a customer went inside the bank at that moment. The guard inside the bank would then escort the customer out of sight of the lobby and take him or her to whoever they were visiting.
Dyson knew it would take split-second timing, but he'd learned to move fast taking compromising photographs of celebrities. He gripped the canvas bag tightly by its wooden handle as a woman dressed in black approached. Three small green trams – toys compared with the modern blue giants of Zurich – trundled up from the direction of the Rhine close together. This could be the right moment.
The woman in black entered the bank, the guard spoke to her, escorted her out of sight. The trams masked him from the American. Dyson leapt up, pushed open the door into the empty lobby, then moved even faster.
Unbuttoning his disreputable overcoat, he tore it off, revealing a smart blue business jacket. Slipping out of his trousers, he exposed the blue suit trousers. Hauling off the boots, he opened the canvas bag, took out a pair of smart slip-ons, tucked his feet inside them. Pulling off the hat he bundled the boots and old clothes inside the canvas bag, closed it. Smoothing his hair with a comb and wiping his face with a cloth he had dampened earlier, he held a visiting card in his hand when the guard returned. He presented the card without saying a word. The guard examined it, turned it over to look at the writing on the back. He read the message in German carefully.
Please give every assistance to this gentleman. He is a most valued client.
On the front side was printed Walter Amberg, Zurcher Kredit. The printing was embossed. Dyson had asked Julius's brother for his card when he had deposited the film and the tape with Julius. On his recent visit to Zurich he had entered several bars before he struck up a conversation with a Swiss by buying him several drinks. He had then asked him to write this message in German on the card, saying he was playing a joke on a Swiss friend.
Dyson was an expert at bluffing his way into offices and houses where he wasn't known. The guard said something to him in German,
'Sorry,' Dyson said, 'I only speak English.'
'I think you should see Mrs Kahn,' the guard suggested in English.
'I think that was the name of the lady I was given…'
Mrs Kahn was a dark-haired lady of uncertain age wearing gold-rimmed glasses. She studied the card after asking him to sit down. Then she said she would be back in a minute. She closed the door to another room carefully after leaving.
Dyson grinned to himself. He knew exactly what she was doing. She was phoning Zurich to check on him. Dyson had deposited a small sum of money when he had handed over the film and the tape for safekeeping. He had realized that if you were a client – no matter how small or large the account – you had joined the club.
While he was alone he took out his handkerchief, wet it with his tongue, rubbed vigorously at his cheek. He had already cleaned off most of the dirt in the lobby but he was anxious to make a good impression. A man of substance was the phrase. A pukka member of the club. Mrs Kahn returned, sat behind her desk.
'What can I do for you, Mr Dyson?'
'I have to get in touch with Mr Amberg. He is keeping something valuable for me. He said I should ask for him when I needed to collect the valuables. The matter is rather urgent.'
'Mr Amberg is in France.'
'I know.' He smiled briefly. 'I've left the address he gave me at my London apartment. I'm a bachelor so there's no one there I can call to look it up for me '
'He's in Alsace…'
'I can remember that. Foreign addresses go out of my head.'
'It is not too far. The Chateau Noir in the Vosges. You can take the train to Colmar.'
'I travel by car. I've driven there before. To Colmar.'
'It's difficult to find, Mr Dyson. Up in the mountains. I suggest you purchase a road map. When you get to Colmar there is a hotel outside the railway station. The Hotel Bristol. Show them the map and they will guide you.'
'I am much obliged, Mrs Kahn.'
'It is my pleasure. The guard will show you out…'
That was inconvenient. He had hoped to change back into his hippie clothes in the lobby before emerging from the bank. The guard appeared, escorted him to the main front door, opened it, nodded to him.
Dyson stepped out into a freezing cold afternoon. The interior of the bank had been cosily warm. He walked a few paces down the street, watching the American who still stood on the opposite side of the street. A gun barrel was rammed into his back from inside a trench coat.
'Where is Amberg, Mr Dyson? A correct answer means I may not pull the trigger.'
'At the Chateau Noir. France. Up in the Vosges mountains. Near Colmar.'
Dyson was scared stiff, but he was a survivor. So close, now to a huge fortune. He wasn't going to risk a bullet in the back at this stage. The man with the American voice behind him might be testing him.
'So let's you and I go for walkies,' the voice continued. 'There's a short cut through an alley…'
He stopped speaking. Dyson had spotted a police car patrolling slowly along the street. He shoved both hands in the air, way above his head. Everything happened in a flash. The patrol car stopped, the gun was removed from his back, he heard the sound of feet running as a policeman, gun in hand, came up to him.
'He held me up with a gun, wanted my passport and money.'
Dyson glanced over his shoulder. No sign of the American.
'He didn't get anything. You arrived
The policeman had nodded, was now running with long strides towards where several streets radiated. He disappeared round a corner. Dyson sighed with relief, picked up the canvas bag he'd dropped, walked quickly away.
He'd already hired a silver Mercedes. Within the hour he'd be driving across the frontier, heading for Colmar.
Talking to the President, each time Norton started out by giving the phone number of his latest perch. The President had no idea what city the first numbers identified – Sara found that out after he'd closed the call.
Norton, his 'grey' hair now getting shaggy, was sitting in the Basle apartment he'd commandeered. It was normally occupied by a diplomat from the Berne Embassy. The Ambassador, Anderson, hadn't liked it when Norton had told him to throw out the present occupant.
He'd had no option but to agree to Norton's demand when the man with untidy grey hair and wearing half- moon glasses had waved his Presidential aide pass at him.
Anderson had also told him that he was clearing his desk, going home. A man called Gallagher was taking his post. Norton had smiled to himself- Anderson, an old-school diplomat, must have rubbed March up the wrong way. The phone rang.
'Mencken here. We've located Amberg. The Chateau Noir in France. Near a place called Colmar. The chateau is up in the Vosges mountains
